A Crowd of One
by Ruralstar
Summary: Episode tag for 5x11 "Wish You Were Here". Summary: Owen has no clue what the hell happened all day. A/N: Just a few thoughts expressed by many viewers and filtered through the lens of Owen's mixed up mind.


Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is the property of ABC, Shondra Rhimes and Co. No copyright infringement is intended.

A Crowd of One

It's not healthy to drink alone.

Owen sat back into the shadows surrounding his corner table. Technically, he was not alone. Joe's Bar was packed with regulars in spite of the early hour. Callie Torres and Mark Sloan had just taken up residence at the bar and were engaged in an intense discussion. The barman was looking decidedly unnerved by their behavior. Owen grimaced. It took a lot to draw a reaction from someone like Joe. And what the hell were the two doctors looking at? Owen's eyes shifted to the door of the bar. Two of the hospital's interns were at the head of a crowd of new patrons. Owen searched his mind in vain for their names and finally gave up with a sigh. Torres' voice, lowered to a furtive hiss, carried easily beneath the murmur of conversation. Sloan evidently decided to ignore her in favor of one of the interns. He rose from his stool leaving the brunette alone with a mangled swizzle stick clamped in her jaws. Owen rolled his shoulders to ease the dull ache of tension. So technically not alone, though he doubted anyone besides Joe knew he was sitting in this dark corner.

Owen studied the shot of Scotch resting on the table in front of him. The lights of the bar played across the surface of the liquor and picked rainbows from the arc of the glass. He nudged the tabletop with his knee and watched the reflection skew with the resultant ripples. The day had been a similar mix of dulled colors with just the slightest push sending the whole situation careening into a muddy ditch.

The discovery that Derek Shepherd was not the clueless civilian he first appeared was easily the most comforting aspect of a very trying day. Owen had not intended to overhear Derek's conversation with Meredith but a nurse had waylaid him just around the corner from where the two had stopped to talk. The woman's question was short and Owen was walking away when something in the other man's voice pulled him up short. Disregarding his fundamental aversion to eavesdropping, he folded up the chart and listened. Derek had been unusually callous in treating the death row inmate William Dunn. His tone when speaking to Meredith indicated that there was something deeper than basic ideological differences driving his frustration. Owen empathized with his ire at the prisoner's insinuation that they were two sides of the same coin. He would have objected if Shepherd had not. For the first time since arriving at Seattle Grace he felt a kinship with another doctor. Shepherd's approach to medicine was different but his motivations were eerily familiar. Like looking in a cracked mirror, Owen concluded as he picked up the shot glass.

He tossed back the Scotch and carefully replaced the glass on the table. Four months and six days had passed since his discharge from the army. In that time Owen could count on one hand the number of nights he had slept for a full eight hours. Those rare instances had come at the price of complete exhaustion, with one exception. The night he spent sitting on his seventh floor balcony finishing off a bottle of Glenfiddich and watching a succession of thunderstorms roll over the harbor. He slept in the chair, hardly restful upon reflection. Was it possible Derek could help? Would he be willing? Could he be trusted? Owen studied his empty glass. What if the problem was not neurological?

Owen shook his head at the errant thought and stood up. He wandered over to the opposite end of the bar from Callie Torres and signaled Joe for another drink. The barman nodded and after storing a tip under the bar approached Owen.

"You want the bottle?" he offered, the barest touch of concern lacing the question.

"No." Owen pulled a five dollar bill from his wallet and tossed it onto the polished oak. "Keep it. I won't be back up tonight."

Joe shrugged. "Thanks."

Owen snagged the glass. He liked the idea of being a regular in a place like Joe's. The barman was a listener with his eyes as much as his ears. It was okay to care about his patrons even if said patrons did not reciprocate. A wan smile tugged at Owen's lips as he returned to his corner table and sat down. The front door squeaked and his gaze swung automatically to the entryway. The next breath caught in his throat.

Cristina.

Owen swallowed hard, his fingers curling bone-white around the shot glass.

He watched her weave slowly through the crowd to the bar. A murmured greeting to Callie and she slid onto the neighboring stool. Dark curls spilled over her shoulders and one small hand absently brushed them from her cheek. Joe took her order and moments later a shot of pale amber liquid appeared on the bar. Cristina clinked her glass with Callie's and downed it in one gulp. A shiver briefly tightened the brown leather jacket across her shoulders. She looked to the ceiling, licking her lips and then turned to Joe. Owen looked away as she ordered a second drink.

All day he had fought to be professional around her. Something important had happened on the vent. More than a moment's comfort, it was an interlude marked by their first mutual release. Her smile, her laughter, infused him with light. Owen licked his lips, remembering her warmth and taste. There had been no words. Only her body, soft and supple as she moved in his arms. Her tongue parrying with his as they explored one another. Her hands sliding up under his scrubs and grazing his shoulder blades. Touching, cradling, dragging back down and forward over his ribs. The small, eager noise slipping from her lips and his laughter low and deep as he bent to nuzzle her neck. No words. Only minutes that felt like hours of silent wonder. He had stepped back and smiled, feeling more rested than he could remember.

Owen stared hard at the shot of Scotch. They had been on opposite shifts since that day. Cristina had approached him this morning with an air of familiarity and a thrill of fear had chilled him to the core. Work was work. It could not be otherwise or he would not be able to cope. So he took the case history from the Chief without even looking at Cristina. She should have understood but he sensed the hurt as he turned and walked down the hall. Outside the January air was unseasonably warm and he felt faintly nauseous as Webber explained the meaning of PDR. The sight of William Dunn shackled to his gurney and his offhand greeting silenced them all. Owen was thankful of the distraction and hoped that Cristina would be too busy to push the issue.

A snort of laughter drew Owen's gaze from the glass to the bar. Callie was leaning close to Cristina and muttering. Yang nodded slowly, one hand curled protectively around her glass. Owen sighed and looked away.

He had not anticipated the depth of Cristina's friendship with Meredith Grey or the effect their fight would have. The tension in the trauma room while they assessed William Dunn permeated every word and glance. For Owen, there was no question that Cristina was justified in her anger and hurt. Watching and listening as she discussed Dunn's treatment with Derek and Meredith was an education in the fine art of non-communication. A subject he surely held a master's degree in at this point.

"_I thought they were friends."_

"_They were."_

"_And now?"_

"_And now we're in for a very long day."_

Owen raised the shot glass to his lips and drained it. Derek had been right. Each well-intentioned step he took seemed to be the wrong one. After Dunn's scans had been completed Cristina had disappeared to a quiet spot to do her charting. A coffee break sounded like a good idea to Owen. Anything to soften the hostility she emanated like a fog. After a moment's hesitation she accepted the coffee and his smile as the peace offering they were meant. Derek's approach had prevented Owen from saying anything else. Business at hand he turned, listened, and walked away. She should have understood that this was the wrong time and place.

Callie Torres laughed a second time, louder and higher as she stood up from the bar stool. Owen fiddled with the shot glass and leaned back into the shadows.

He had not meant to be so terse with Cristina in the hallway. Brushing past her on the way out of the cafeteria had made his skin tingle with remembrance. Her need to unleash her frustrations was palpable in word and manner but he had to get away. There was no time for the vent, and dragging her into one of the on-call rooms for a conversation was not an option. He knew how those rooms were frequently used and he refused to add to the hospital rumor mill with even the appearance of impropriety.

Owen scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Maybe he should have said as much? Maybe she should have known? The hand dropped into his lap as Owen pondered the empty glass. He had drawn a line between personal and professional. He could not step across it. Or could he? Where were the boundaries? Would they exist if he had not created them?

A glint of light caught Owen's eye. He looked up to see Cristina's glass raised to catch Joe's attention. He walked over and arched a questioning eyebrow. She hesitated then raised one finger. Joe poured and took the money she placed on the bar. Owen's fingers crept around his empty glass.

The surgery on William Dunn took exactly one hour and fifty three minutes. Owen listened to Cristina and Meredith bicker over a procedure and wished heartily that he and Derek had gone for that beer. The Seahawks discussion died almost instantly, leaving him to endure the promised ice cave with only Derek's infrequent glances of commiseration for solace. He could sense Cristina's need for some sort of defense in the light of Meredith's sudden superiority complex. Why and how he might comment was beyond him however. This was not a junior high classroom and the conflict ran a little deeper than whose lipstick was the most alluring. Time enough after the surgery was over.

Except Cristina Yang had already reached the end of her very short fuse.

"_You okay? You want to get a drink or something?"_

He meant well. God, he was glad to see Dunn's gurney wheeled away. The shackles were not dissimilar to the irons used on Iraqi POWs. More than once he had been pressed into treating their wounds in the field because there was no one else. The reminder had nudged Owen's mind all day. He successfully suppressed it until the pressure of dealing directly with the prisoner was relieved. Then it roared to the fore leaving him feeling weak and vaguely ill.

"_Oh? Oh, now we're on again? Because the mood suits you? Because I'm the sad little girl with no friends and I tripped your savior complex."_

Owen rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Maybe it was a fair statement. Seeing Cristina so vulnerable _had_ touched a nerve. He wanted to help. Didn't she understand that? It wasn't about moods, it was about airing issues at the right time and in the right place.

"_I don't…" _

"_Usually I can deal with the hot and cold thing but not today." _

Owen pushed the empty shot glass to the center of the table. Her words had sent a shock through his tired frame. This was not how it was supposed to be. Not what he intended.

"Thanks, Joe."

Startled, Owen looked up. The crowd had thinned considerably as he ruminated in the dark. Cristina's farewell carried easily above the scattering of conversations. He watched her walk to the door feeling a quiver in his legs. The unmistakable urge to follow and explain what was only now becoming clear. Cristina pushed open the heavy door and stepped out, letting in a damp blast of air. Owen groaned beneath his breath as she disappeared.

"Jesus, how could I be so blind?" he whispered. Shoving the chair back hard against the wall, Owen grabbed his coat and headed for the door.

Outside he looked left. Cristina's apartment was down a half a block and on the other side of the mammoth hospital that butted up to the corner. She was walking quickly, nearly to the intersection before Owen picked her leather clad figure out of the evening gloom.

"Cristina…." Her name died on his lips and Owen sank back against the wall of the bar. First names tasted foreign in his mouth. They had yet to cross that threshold, though they had clearly jumped at least a few of the first steps traditional couples took. He grimaced. When had he acquired the right to think of them as anything more than acquaintances? After the first, second or was it the third kiss? A short, brittle laugh slipped out as Owen straightened up.

Cristina was no longer in sight. He followed her path without hurry, knowing he would ultimately turn towards the hospital parking deck and not her apartment at the corner. Definitely the third kiss, but what did it matter? Control of the situation needed to be mutual or she would not be a party to it.

"_Just leave me the hell alone."_

Owen shrugged into his jacket. Those final words said with bitter sadness. No, he did not want to leave her alone. Worse was the idea that she would give up and walk away just when he was starting to feel. Owen shivered in spite of the quilted lining and flipped up the collar of his coat. Feeling meant opening a door he had tried for months to nail shut. He should have known that returning to Seattle Grace would bring more than a sense of distant familiarity. Perhaps he had known somewhere deep within and simply failed to acknowledge it? Admit that he needed it? Owen reached the corner and looked left.

Cristina stood at the door of her apartment. She fumbled the keys from her pocket and inserted them in the lock. Owen sucked in an unsteady breath as she turned and looked his way. Their eyes met. One heartbeat, two, three…She looked away and stepped inside.

Owen turned and crossed the street, ignoring the blare of a passing car as he walked against the light. All day he had kept his distance. Kept control of the need to listen and comfort Cristina. She was not an easy woman to know. She blustered when hurt, bit when angered. He respected her assertiveness if not her lack of tact in certain situations. Cristina Yang did not whine but today she needed a friend. Owen cursed softly beneath his breath and reached for his car keys. He would not blame her for walking away. What woman needed a man so utterly incapable of responding to even the simplest request?

Where the hell did he go from here and would she be waiting when he finally made up what was left of his mind?

~THE~END~


End file.
